


A Tale of Two Cities -- Seventeen Dickens AU

by somanystories



Category: SEVENTEEN - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-17 14:03:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12367293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somanystories/pseuds/somanystories
Summary: Seoul, South Korea, and Pyeongyang, North Korea, are different worlds somehow existing at the same time.Lovely Hong Jisoo grew up blissfully in Seoul, ignorant of his North Korean roots until he went to retrieve his father Lee Jihoon, reuniting with a new past.Meanwhile, Pyeongyang is going through massive upheaval, with defectors doctor Lee Jihoon and gentleman Choi Seungcheol in the middle, forced to choose between loyalty to their home country and love of their new.Yoon Jeonghan, a struggling lawyer with a deep seated hatred of himself, finds solace in these new friends.They all come together in this magnificent period of times, where if governments can't survive, who is to say relationships can.





	1. Chapter 1

Based on Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities 

If you've read the book, NO SPOILERS. And if you haven't read the book, you should. Dickens is 100000x better author than me and deserves to be read. I took some liberties-- I simplified some of the plot lines and exaggerated some of the relationships...but such is my right as a writer. Overall, most things are the same.

Note:  
I lived in Seoul for two years, so descriptions of places and things in Seoul are accurate. However I (as well as most people) have not been to North Korea. My descriptions of Pyeongyang are from research and pictures.

Enjoy~


	2. The Times

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was the time of technology, it was the time of depravity. It was the time of knowledge, it was the time of ignorance. The road to opportunity was paved with silver, the road to misery was paved with gold. A few people had everything, most people had something, but some people had nothing. A single choice could determine a man’s, or woman’s, fate. There was everything before us, yet few took it, instead opting to live a life of mediocrity, or bliss, depending on the man (or woman). 

It was the year 2016. 

Corruption sat on the presidency in the South; Seoul a collection of the old and new. Remodeled palaces surrounded by gleaming skyscrapers. Trains and subways crisscrossing the peninsula, connecting the rich with the poor with the middle class. Dreams seemed possible. Achieved often enough for rumors to permeate the kimchi fields of friend x or friend y who moved to Seoul, found their opportunity, put on eyeliner and appeared on the television, thanking friend z in the fields for all their support.

Evil sat in Pyongyang in the North. A large excuse for a pig with a bad haircut, a country with no connections, few friends, and many enemies. A people torn between extravagance and deep poverty. A single city with the recognizable skyscrapers, and acres of fields, filled not with hopeful dreamers but dead eyes and concave stomachs. Cruel prisons packed with ‘enemies of the state’ or in other words, the said dreamers, stuck instead in a nightmare. A nightmare unknown despite this world of connectivity, where everyone knew everything and yet, no one knew anything.  


A line stretched between these two countries, a single latitude separating freedom from incarceration, hope from despair, dreams from nightmares, that few were allowed to cross without death on sight. 

One of those people was Mr. Jeon Wonwoo.


	3. Business

Mr. Jeon was a man of business. Some say he had calculator born in his mouth, which may have been true. Mr. Jeon didn’t remember much before five years old and his parents had died when he was young. He cared about quantitative things—numbers and figures. So while he was 45 years old, he had never had time for relationships or business like that.  
However, there were certain people able to pierce his single track mind, one of which was his adopted son Jisoo.  
“Now Jisoo, remember these rules. Don’t say anything you wouldn’t say to your girlfriend. And especially don’t say anything you wouldn’t say to me,” he said stepping out of the subway doors, “this place has CCTVs installed on every floor, ceiling, and wall I swear.”  
Jisoo shivered.  
They stepped into Dorasan Station, the so called ‘cleanest subway station in the world.’ Cleanest because no dirty foot, or clean one for that matter, ever stepped there. An electronic sign overhead read “next station, Pyongyang”, however the tracks abruptly ended to said destination.  
A man in an olive green suit and hat walked, or more marched to them. Somewhere in between.  
“Hello, Sir,” Mr. Jeon gave a bow to the man. Jisoo clutched Mr. Jeon’s arm and gave a bow as well.  
“Are you ready?” the man asked, looking over Mr. Jeon’s shoulder, refusing to make eye contact. His hair fringed across his forehead, making him look quite young, whether he was or not.  
“Of course dear man,” said Mr. Jeon putting on his people smile. The one he reserved for customers. They started out to a big black car.  
“This is my son, Jisoo, by the way,” Mr. Jeon said. No reaction from Sir North.  
The weather was overcast and a slight breeze rumbled through the tall dead grass. Jisoo brought his light blue coat around him closer. There was no one outside besides them, and the foliage seemed to whisper sighs of loneliness.  
But Mr. Jeon was used to that, this having been his—what—at least twentieth time across the border.  
They slid into a black leather seat with no seatbelts. What need for seatbelts when there are no other people? And they were in the safe care of Sir North.  
Mr. Jeon’s cell phone buzzed in his pocket.

Seokmin: I just got a strange message for you Mr. Jeon.

A strange message?  
The car began to roll along the smooth pavement, towards the empty sky and fields ahead. Jisoo was on his phone as well, looking up some colorful pictures of a Kpop group. If Jisoo had one vice, it would be his weakness for that group—what was its name—Mr. Jeon could not remember.

Me: What kind of message Seokmin?

Seokmin: We got another phone call. One with no number. Straight to your office phone. And I answered it because not only are we a bank these days, but a detective agency.

Mr. Jeon rolled his eyes. We were not a detective agency. Detectives work with clues and guesses. Banks work with truth and facts.

Seokmin: In an alternate universe, would I be Sherlock and you Watson? Or the other way around? 

Me: Obviously I would be Sherlock Seokmin. I am your boss. What did the message say?

Jisoo’s phone blasted music and he pounded on the volume button, cringing.

Seokmin: Watson didn’t have a boss. They were partners.  
Seokmin: But it was that Darth Vader voice again—he said just two things. That address, you remember the address?

Of course he remembered the address. Was it getting darker? Or stormier? Or were the windows just more tinted than he remembered?

Seokmin: And one more thing— he said “recalled to life”.

Recalled to life?

Me: How strange. Nothing else?

Seokmin: I googled “recalled”, just to be sure, and it means like ‘remember’ or ‘bring back to a place’ or ‘restore’.

They passed a large cement building, surrounded by chain link fence and topped with curly barbed wire. Whatever those buildings were used for, Mr. Jeon did not know.

Me: I know what recall means Seokmin.

Being a good Christian man, the last person Mr. Jeon knew who had been ‘recalled to life’ was Jesus. And that was many years ago.

Seokmin: Just doing what I can to help the case. :)

Me: Please don’t smile at me like that. And it’s not a ‘case’.

They crawled over a hill and the city splayed out before them. Unlike Seoul, the skyscrapers never seemed to gleam. But perhaps that was because there was no sun. But that was ridiculous—it couldn’t be overcast every day.

Seokmin: I think you’re right. I’m Watson and you’re Sherlock.

Jisoo had put his phone away and was now looking over Mr. Jeon’s shoulder out the window, his eyebrows knit together and his hands wrung under his coat.  
Mr. Jeon recalled his first time to Pyeongyang, at least 15 years ago. How unnerving the empty countryside and how strange was Sir North.  
He wouldn't have subjected our Jisoo to such a horrible place if it weren’t for business: the ‘Darth Vader' call they had received two days ago, asking that Mr. Jeon come up to visit MK bank hub in the North, for they had some ‘problems’.  
But they always had problems. Unfortunately without reliable internet or cell service, it was hard to communicate.  
The call left an address — Pyongyang Special City, Jongno-gu, Jong-no 6 Seorin-dong 154-1. Luckily, the address was right next to the bank.  
But the strange call had also asked that he bring his “lovely son.”  
Northerners, while still Korean, often used different words to describe things. So while he thought it weird to have a stranger call his son ‘lovely’, he supposed that it was actually an accurate word. Jisoo was one of those people blessed not only with unmatched good looks and deep intelligence, but a deeper sense of humility and kindness. It had to be innate in the boy, this man, for Mr. Jeon had certainly never taught him these skills.  
God could be truly unfair, and if Mr. Jeon were to describe the world in one word it would be that—unfair.

Me: Thank you Seokmin. We are about leave service. I’ll call you tonight when we are done.

Seokmin: Excellent!

Me: Elementary.


	4. Pyeongyang

The North reeked of uncivility. The closer they got, minute after minute, the more Jisoo wanted to pull out his phone and watch the last Seventeen teaser. Their comeback stage was tonight, and he was going to miss it.  
But that was ok. Wonwoo didn’t ask him to do many things. A day out with the Parent was the least he could do. Plus, it meant he didn’t have to spend the Saturday with Sohee.  
Jisoo sighed. Girlfriends were supposed to be people you wanted to spend time with.  
“Are you ok Jisoo?” Wonwoo asked.  
“Yes, yes I’m fine.”  
The car pulled to an abrupt stop and Jisoo just about flew out of the seat, grabbing Wonwoo’s leg to keep him there. Wonwoo’s gold rimmed glasses slid on to the floor and Jisoo scrambled to pick them up. He needed a fully operational Parent to guide him through this place.  
‘Sir North’ got out of the car and walked around to the other side. Jisoo peered out the tinted windows, doing his best to see, and another man, dressed in the same olive green suit and hat, with a thin mustache, give him a salute and a quick nod.  
Then Sir North opened Jisoo’s door.  
“Phones, wallets, passports, please” Sir North said, with his strange accent, holding his hand out without looking at them.  
Jisoo clutched at his phone in his pocket.  
Wonwoo passed his and Jisoo’s passports, as well as his own wallet and phone, to Sir North. “It’s ok,” Wonwoo said patting Jisoo’s shoulder. “You’ll get your wallet back.”  
It wasn’t his wallet he was worried about. Reluctantly, he slid the leather black wallet out to Sir North. Perhaps he could pretend he didn’t have a phone? Wonwoo was cleaning his glasses…  
But Sir North continued to hold out his hand.  
It wasn’t that he was worried about its safety. But bank business could take an awfully long time. How was going to entertain himself.  
“We don’t even have internet service Jisoo. Just hand it over.”  
Jisoo sighed and gave Sir North his phone. He could have at least taken selfies or something. The man outside inspected their passports thoroughly, flipping every page. They wouldn’t find anything interesting in Jisoo’s—he’d never been out of the country. Lastly he took out Jisoo’s wallet and compared his license to his passport to his face. If he was an enemy, did the man really think he would try enter North Korea in the back of a citizen’s car?

As the city got closer, it only got worse. What was worse about it Jisoo couldn’t say. Places aren’t people, they don’t have feelings or attitudes. But the overcast weather and the strange wind and the emptiness made it seem…ominous?  
But there was nothing inherently wrong, Jisoo reminded himself. He was just phoneless. Like missing a limb, without his phone he always felt unbalanced.  
The black car drove across a large bridge, black water rippling beneath it.  
A few other cars passed around them, but no honking or rubber or background noise.  
Jisoo wanted to leave this place as soon as possible. Wonwoo said they’d be back by tonight.  
The car drove through the city. Jisoo strained over Wonwoo’s shoulders to look around. Skyscrapers, apartments, low houses. It was like Seoul in a strange way. Like a bad copy of Seoul. Like someone with depression and had never been to Seoul, had built it.  
The car pulled into a large square. The type of square people should be milling about on. Sir North got out first and came around the door. Jisoo and Wonwoo got out of the car.  
“For your family, Jun” he heard Wonwoo whisper, subtly passing Sir North a small box of mooncakes. Sir North, without making eye contact, shoved it  inside his coat. Where had Wonwoo been keeping those?  
Jisoo’s stomach growled.  
Why didn’t he get a mooncake.  
Clean grey cobblestones spread out in a massive expanse, as big as two soccer fields. The grout between each stone was still mostly white, as if it was still new.  
Though Jisoo didn’t think so. Like mostly everything in Pyeongyang, it was just plain unnerving.  
At one end of the square was a large building, extending the entire length, with stairs leading up to marble roman columns. A giant red flag with someone's face on it rippled through the wind.  
Jisoo brought his coat closer. He should have worn his winter coat. Maybe it would have helped.  
“This way Jisoo,” Wonwoo put his arm on his shoulder and led him to a building to the right. Jun, Sir North, whatever his name was, drove away. MK bank was a smaller version of the large building, only six roman columns and behind it, a wooden door.  
“How long is this going to take father?” Jisoo asked.  
“I don’t know,” Wonwoo sighed. “North Korean business is unpredictable.”  
Inside the bank was silver and white. One large desk sat at the entry way and a woman, in a green suit and hat, greeted them. There must have been more rooms in back.  
“Hello Madame,” Wonwoo bowed.  
Jisoo bowed too.  
Madame slid a piece of paper across the marble counter to Wonwoo, who inspected it carefully. This bank was nothing like MK bank in Seoul. It was freaking creepy.  
Wonwoo made a slight nod to the woman and guided Jisoo out the door, still holding the paper close to his face.  
“I don’t like it there father,” Jisoo said.  
“Yes it’s quit strange isn’t it.” Wonwoo muttered.  
“What is that?” Jisoo asked.  
Wonwoo showed him the paper. “It’s an address. Where we are supposed to go.”  
“So not bank business then?”  
Wonwoo sighed and adjusted his glasses. “It would appear not.”  
Jisoo hoped it wouldn’t take too long. If it wasn’t the bank, then maybe it would be quick and they’d be back before dinner. And Music Core.  
Wonwoo led him to the right, towards a side street, but then a loud noise made Jisoo jump and turn around.  
Out by the large marble building, at its steps, what looked like some posts were being put up by more soldiers. Tall white sticks, the height of a man, with circles within circles, sitting on top. Five of them in a row. What on earth.  
“What are those Father?” Jisoo asked Wonwoo.  
“Just follow me,” he said taking Jisoo’s arm and leading him down the side street.

The address was to a small shop. On the outside, it looked silver and new like everything else, but the inside was all made of dark wood—a long bar and tables and chairs.  
Here is where the people were.  
Jisoo let out a sigh of relief.  
A man with curly brown hair stood at the bar, wearing a white shirt and apron, and overall didn't look like he belonged in Pyeongyang. He suddenly slid a glass of wine across the bar, from one hand to another, four times.  
“Hello Sirs,” a handsome tall one came from a room behind the bar, while simultaneously everyone in the bar got up and left, chatting nonchalantly, as if it was time for the next round of alcohol but at a different establishment.  
Wonwoo was talking to the handsome one and didn’t seem notice the sudden exodus.  
“You must be Sir Jisoo,” the handsome one had to look down considerably to make eye contact.  
“Just Jisoo is ok,” Jisoo whispered.  
“Well I’m Sir Mingyu, and this is my…business partner… Minghao,” he put a hand around Minghao’s waist. While Sir Mingyu was welcoming, Sir Minghao clutched the glass of wine till his fingers were white.  
What would happen if Jisoo just took out sprinting. How far away was Sir North/Jun? Would he make it the car? Or could he just keep running home?  
“Yes, well, we are here on some business,” Wonwoo passed the small paper to Sir Mingyu.  
“Yes, I know, follow me.”  
Jisoo gulped and stood close to Wonwoo. It was times like these that Jisoo felt very young and grateful that he had the Parent. Even if he wasn’t his actual parent.  
They wandered through the bar, feeling Sir Minghao’s eyes on his back the entire time. Jisoo stood up straighter and pictured his nice apartment in Seoul, eating ramyeon on the couch and watching Music Core. Yes—that would be nice. And only a few hours away.  
Sir Mingyu opened a nearly invisible wooden door and they started up a spiral staircase. Wood like the bar, and old feeling, like the bar. And increasingly smelly. Unlike the bar.  
They wound up and up, the walls an old stone, like they were going back in time. Jisoo couldn’t remember seeing a tower from the outside, yet he had been very distracted on the way here.  
Finally they arrived at the top of the stairs and a small landing, where there was a large metal gate. And inside the gate was a small room containing only a pile of straw and a small window up above. And inside the room, a man. A man? Or dog? A something. Bent over a wooden bench. Pounding on leather.


	5. Recalled to Life

Recalled to life. 

Recalled to life.

Mr. Jeon knew that the man in front of him was dead. He had been dead. For 15 years. Yet here he was, a blank look in his eye, skin and bones, filthy scraps of clothing, crazy black hair. But alive. Very much alive. A wooden board in front of him, sitting on the disgusting stone ground, pummeling a piece of leather with a mallet. 

Recalled to life.

Jisoo pulled away from Mr. Jeon and put his lovely hands on the old cell gates.

Recalled to life.

“We’ve been looking for you for…a while,” Sir Mingyu said, staring at the man. 

A while? A while?

“Fifteen years you mean?” Mr. Jeon said angrily.  
Sir Mingyu wiped the back of his neck with a sweaty hand. 

“Can I talk to him?” Jisoo asked quietly. 

Sir Mingyu stood there, eyes looking off in the distance. 

“You heard the boy!” Mr. Jeon shouted. “Let him talk!” 

The man in the cell didn’t acknowledge the commotion outside. Just kept pounding. A new hit every 6 seconds. Exactly 6 seconds. 

“Yes, yes,” Sir Mingyu stumbled forward, pulling an ancient brass key out of his pocket. A key like out of one of those mystery shows Seokmin watches when business is slow.   
Mr. Jeon sighed. What had his life come to.

Sir Mingyu turned the key and slowly opened the cell. Jisoo paused for a second and looked towards Mr. Jeon.   
Mr. Jeon knew the importance of this moment, even if Jisoo didn’t. This was the moment he gave his adopted son back to his real father. Jisoo’s pleading eyes seemed to ask if this was ok. But who was Mr. Jeon to tell him anything anymore. His throat tightened and coughed. All he could do was nod. 

Recalled to life.

Jisoo crept towards the man and knelt down to his level.   
“Hello,” he whispered. The pounds stopped.   
“Hello,” he whispered again.  
The man slowly looked up. Jisoo lifted one hand off the floor. He went to wipe it on his jeans, only to wipe it on the straw instead. 

Mr. Jeon looked at Sir Mingyu, who was tapping on the gate and biting his lip.  
“Are you the Darth Vader caller?” Mr. Jeon asked him.  
Sir Mingyu closed his eyes briefly. “Yes, I did call you.”

The man in the cell jumped back like a monkey and crept to the corner. He rifled through straw, throwing it around so that Mr. Jeon and Sir Mingyu jumped back. Jisoo scurried away and clung to Mr. Jeon.  
The man cleared away a small section of floor, lifted some bricks, threw some small scraps of paper aside, and found an object. So shiny, it reflected the light of the small window.

Then, the man slowly walked towards them. Refusing to take his eyes from Jisoo. Mr. Jeon sturdied his arm, providing a place for him to hold to. The man, with small slanted black eyes and worse smelling than the roadside trash on a July day, clicked on the object and it fell open.

Mr. Jeon watched as Jisoo peered into the man’s object—a locket. On one side a small picture of a beautiful woman, with Jisoo’s eyes. And on the other side, a picture of a round faced beaming boy.

“Father?” Jisoo asked.

______

 

It took a great deal of convincing to get the man downstairs. It was only after Mr. Jeon took Jisoo’s light blue coat, that Jisoo took the man’s arm and slowly guided him, one stair at a time, whispering encouragement.

Mr. Jeon was troubled. It’s not every day a man comes back to life. He would need some ibuprofen and a long nights sleep.   
But the man—where was he going to sleep?

“He was my old master,” Sir Mingyu said suddenly.  
“He’s a good man who—“   
“I’m sure he’s a good man” Mr. Jeon interrupted.  
Sir Mingyu pushed on the door and they entered the bar—empty. Strange, for he could have sworn that when they entered, the place was full.  
Sir Minghao glared at the man, who was only walking by, leaning completely on Jisoo. Mr. Jeon would have to dry clean his shirt later.  
If Jisoo would let him. Of course he would. A boy—a man—could have two fathers. It happens all the time. Especially in today's society. Mr. Jeon laughed to himself.

Sir Minghao took a small piece of paper out from under the cash register and wrote something with bright red pen, glaring at the man.

“We will relieve you of him now,” Mr. Jeon said to Sir Minghao, "thanks for keeping such…good care of him."  
Mr. Jeon wasn’t good at sarcasm but he hoped this time it worked.  
Sir Mingyu scratched his head and disappeared in the back room.  
Mr. Jeon looked at his watch. 2:55 pm. Sir North had said he’d stop by the bank at 3pm and see if they were done. 

Recalled to life.

“We’ll be going now. Are you ready Jisoo?”  
The man, was staring straight ahead. He would need an entire bottle of shampoo. Perhaps it was best just to cut it off. And his clothes.   
A lot of work needed to be done.  
They better get going.

Mr. Jeon led the man and Jisoo outside to the frosty air.  
“Wait!” Sir Mingyu grabbed Mr. Jeon’s arm.  
“A gift—“   
He handed Mr. Jeon a large bottle of red wine. Mr. Jeon didn’t drink alcohol. But tonight, he might.  
“And let me know—“ he said, “next time you’re around here. Drop by.”

Jisoo turned around. Mr. Jeon didn’t even think Jisoo had been listening. “We are never coming back here,” he snarled.  
He took the bottle of wine out of Mr. Jeon’s arms and threw it on the ground. It cracked open, jagged pieces of glasses scattering across the cobblestones. The wine seeped through the white grout, little rivulets finding the route of least resistance. Like blood, staining the trail it left. Mr. Jeon stepped back so it wouldn’t get on his shoes.  
He had never seen such a look of loathing on his Jisoo’s face. The world had finally found Jisoo’s trigger.  
Typical—that it be the pain of someone else.

Getting the man into the black car was a struggle, but Jisoo lifted him, just like Jisoo had been lifted inside that day--all those years ago.  
Of course Jisoo didn’t remember that day.  
The weather was a lot like today’s actually.

The car rumbled out of the city, across the bridge, and back out into the countryside. 

It had been just another day of business at the North Korean MK Bank hub. Before internet and cell phones, things had to be done manually. The problems took days rather than hours to solve. Unlike today, the square had been full. Unlike today, the posts had already been set up. Unlike today Pyeongyang didn’t feel empty. It felt evil. But Mr. Jeon didn’t deal with that kind of business, so he planned to get in the car and escape the city before his conscience could change that.  
Unfortunately, a short man with slanted eyes and black hair broke from the back of the crowd and ran up to him.   
“Please,” the man had begged. “Take my son.”  
Mr. Jeon was already halfway in the car when soldiers starting wrestling the man away.   
An announcement was being made, echoing through the square, and people began clapping and cheering.   
Mr. Jeon blocked the words out. The feelings out. Because this wasn’t his business.  
“His name is Jisoo. Please.”  
The baby, 5 years old maximum, began to cry as the soldiers wrenched the father away.  
Mr. Jeon was going to leave the baby there. He was.  
But he watched out the windshield as the man was snaked through the crowd by the soldiers, in their unforgiving green suits and hats.  
“We have a traitor!” an old large man bellowed from the main building’s steps. “He can go first.”  
Mr. Jeon was not going to stay to find out what ‘first’ was.  
But the toddler stood there sobbing, reaching for his father.  
Sir North, or Jun as Mr. Jeon came to know him over the years, looked at Mr. Jeon with pity, standing with the door open. How could a single, middle aged South Korean man possibly care for an abandoned North Korean child? Mr. Jeon climbed into the car and tried to close the door. But Sir North picked up the screaming child, put him in the car next to Mr. Jeon, and slammed the door shut. Gunshots echoed around the buildings, then silence for six seconds, then more guns. After five rounds, a cheer went up through the air, primeval screams, and Mr. Jeon put his hands over baby Jisoo’s ears hoping to protect him. And to steady himself.

Recalled to life.

As Jisoo had looked so nervous on the way here, now he was resilient, speaking calming words to his father. His real father.

The car slowed down as they reached a collection of those strange cement buildings surrounded by fence and wire.

A boy stood on the side of the road.  
A boy—a man—with fluffy black hair and large black eyes, dressed in well fitting jeans and a designer shirt. He was so put together and charming, especially for North Korea. He looked like one of those Kpop stars that Jisoo was so into.  
After speaking for a few minutes with Sir North, the man followed him into the car.  
He squeezed next to Jisoo, fitting four people on the three person bench.

“Hello,” the boy bowed. Jisoo did a small silent bow back.  
Sir North started the car and once again they headed through the empty brown grass fields. The sun suddenly came out. A burst through the clouds. Sir North had to put the sun shield down.  
Mr. Jeon and the boy exchanged greetings, and after a moment of silence, Mr. Jeon asked, “and what is your business going to South Korea?” Just out of curiosity—just to make conversation.  
“Oh,” the boy—the man—stuttered looking down at his hands, “just business.”  
Mr. Jeon nodded. They were in North Korea, and while as trustworthy as Sir North might be, he was still North Korean.  
“I’m Jisoo, Hong Jisoo,” Jisoo broke the suspended silence.   
“Nice to meet you. I’m Choi…Seungcheol. Yes. Seungcheol.”  
Jisoo and the boy chatted and chatted. Jisoo seemed to forget the man next to him. And when he did remember, he gave a quick pat before returning his eyes to the boy. In fact, he couldn’t keep his eyes off of him. 

But that wasn’t Mr. Jeon’s business. Especially since he had a real father now. Not his business at all.

~End of Book One~


	6. Drunk and Late

~One Year Later~

Yoon Jeonghan was drunk, and he was late. To be anything else would mean his fate had changed. But no—his inception happened one drunken night at a club, and he was born four weeks late. So while, yes, it was his fault, it was also his destiny.  
He tossed the empty bottle of soju into trash bin next to the court room door. Perhaps he could contribute something to the case—what was it about again? Oh yes, a North Korean defector. One of the more interesting ones Seungkwan had decide to take on. But the liklihood of defending such a man was slim.  
Jeonghan sighed and pushed the door open. Leaning against the back wall, he watched as an attractive guy in his 30s accuse another attractive guy in his 20s of being a North Korean spy, and that it was his duty to return.  
Maybe this was worth it.  
The North Korean guy, Choi Hansol, claimed to run a “homeless shelter” with the defendant, which anyone who knew anything knew this was another term for “concentration camp”. Seungkwan’s client fiercely denied it, saying he would never dream of running a “homeless shelter” because of their cruelty. Which wasn’t exactly a denial of fact.  
Jeonghan wasn’t sure which attractive guy he wanted to win. But also, North Korea sucks. Choi Hansol’s lawyer stood to continue the case and Jeonghan crept around back to Seungkwan’s side, stubbing his toe only once.  
He slid into the seat next to the attractive guy and Seungkwan glared at him. Whatever. He had nothing to lose.  
Listening to the plaintiff’s lawyer drone on, everyone knew this was a lost cause. If the man stood even a small chance of being a North Korean spy, he was out. Innocent or not, the court would side with the plaintiff. So much for unbiased.  
Jeonghan looked at the defendant closer—yes he was certainly attractive. And strangely enough, they had the same fluffy black hair and big eyes. In fact, if you were crazy, or tipsy, you could almost say they were brothers. Good looks were perhaps the only thing fate had given him. But that wasn’t surprising, considering his parents met at a night club and were now off probably at another night club.  
Jeonghan looked out at the audience. A full one. And in the very front row sat the most attractive boy—man— Jeonghan had ever seen. With perfect skin, dark brown hair gelled up to reveal a small forehead, and those eyes—like a doe’s. Seungkwan reached around the defendant and slapped Jeonghan’s back.  
“Ow what the fuck,” he said.  
Seungkwan pointed to the lawyer and whispered, “pay attention.” And not in a nice way.  
The boy—man—clung to an older man, in at least his 40s. Wrinkles around small slanted eyes and fringy silver hair. Actually, the hair made him look young. He could be any age. The beautiful boy bit his lips and looked on the verge of tears. He clutched the older man’s arms, digging into them to the point of redness.  
It’s decided.  
Whichever side that boy is on, that’s the side Jeonghan was on.  
He never claimed to be unbiased either.  
“Thank you,” the North Korean guy’s lawyer sat down.  
The beautiful boy turned to the guy sitting next to Jeonghan. That look. Pleading and terrified, biting his lips and glassy eyes. And the defendant next to him looked toward the boy with a similar expression.  
Ah. So that’s how it was.  
They could be brothers, Jeonghan thought. But not likely.  
Regardless, Jeonghan needed to see the boy smile. He needed it like he needed a drink after a night writing up a case with Seungkwan or like he needed even an ounce of self confidence.  
“We will now take this to deliberation,” the judge got up. But it was obvious. Seungkwan was stupid to take on a case like this. Just because he was anxious to finally get a case at all. Or maybe the beautiful boy was also rich.  
No—Jeonghan couldn’t let this go. He had an idea.  
But one would have to be crazy, or tipsy, to suggest it.  
Luckily Jeonghan was both.  
“I have a further piece of evidence!” Jeonghan stood up, to the surprise of everyone, including the defendant and Seungkwan.  
“Sit down idiot,” Seungkwan whispered harshly.  
Jeonghan ignored him.  
The judge sighed and sat. There was nothing Jeonghan could say to change his mind.  
Or maybe there was.  
Jeonghan grabbed the attractive defendant’s hand and brought him to the center of the court room. First he faced the audience. The boy’s eyes lit up. And then he faced the judge.  
“Could you be certain, your Honor, that the defendant and I are not the same person?”  
The judge looked confused.  
“This man,” he said pointing the plaintiff, “accuses this man,” holding up the defendant’s hand, “of being a North Korean spy. However, don’t he and I,” he said bringing the defendant’s head close to his, “look similar?”  
The audience murmured.  
The judge screwed his eyes.  
“But you have papers,” he said to Jeonghan. “You have people to vouch for you.”  
“And so does this man,” Jeonghan said. Hoping that the defendant did actually have papers. He wasn’t present for the actual evidence.  
The judge tilted his head. Perhaps he was an unbiased judge.  
“If we look the same, how can the plaintiff be sure that it is not I who is the spy, and this man innocent?”  
The audience gasped.  
Yes, Jeonghan just told an entire court that he could possibly be a North Korean spy. But there were worse things. Like a waste of space who was always drunk and even if he wasn’t drunk, he was always late.  
“You wouldn’t want to send an innocent man to a concentration camp would you?”  
The audience murmured.  
The judge looked at them. Then he looked at the audience. The boy’s worried face.  
Seungkwan’s face was in his hands.  
“I object!” Hansol stood pointing to them. “I know for a fact that is my nephew,” he pointed to the defendant. “Family recognizes family, and that imbecile doesn’t know half of what is happening.”  
Ouch.  
The judge was plainly torn. Even a chance of a North Korean spy was enough to send a man across the border. But subjecting a loyal South Korean to a concentration camp?  
That was worse.  
The judge slammed his podium. “The defendant is declared innocent until proven guilty.”  
The audience roared and clapped.  
Seungkwan’s mouth fell open.  
The boy leapt over the short wall separating them and ran to Seungcheol, who picked him up with his arms and swung him around.  
He was beaming.  
Jeonghan sighed. That was what he wanted anyway. Nothing else.  
Seungcheol dropped the boy and patted Jeonghan’s shoulder.  
“I don’t know how I can every repay you,” he said breathlessly. Tearing up.  
Whether this man was innocent or guilty, it didn’t matter. The boy was smiling and bowing to everyone who’d gathered around Seungcheol.  
“You can’t,” Jeonghan shrugged.  
Seungcheol laughed.  
“Doppelgangers can’t be repaid.”  
“Fair enough,” Seungcheol dropped his arm. “Let me at least take you to dinner.”  
Free food was enticing, but imagining sitting at a table watching the boy make lovey eyes at this Seungcheol. Not worth it.  
Seungcheol was everything Jeonghan could be, if Jeonghan had been born in better circumstances. If Jeonghan had tried harder in school or had more motivation to succeed. If Jeonghan had a support system and reliable friends. They were doppelgängers in appearance, but the opposite in everything else.  
“I don’t like you,” Jeonghan said.  
Seungcheol laughed again.  
The boy suddenly appeared in front of them.  
“Thank you, thank you so much,” he said grabbing his hand. Jeonghan’s heart stopped. “I don’t know how I could ever repay you.” His eyes sparkled like damn Christmas lights. “Let us at take you to dinner or something.”  
All doubts disappeared.

“I like ribs,” Jeonghan said.


	7. Seoul

~Four Months Later~

Choi Seungcheol was a good man. But he was a good man with a dark secret. Which makes him the worst kind of good man. If a good man at all.  
But being there in Jisoo’s lovely apartment, dark secrets were irrelevant.  
He stood at the floor to ceiling glass windows on the 13th floor, overlooking the Han River. The sun shone brilliantly on the water, reflecting the waves of commotion that seemed to define Seoul. Taxis, chicken delivery bikes, trucks, buses, cars, bicyclists, pedestrians, all converging and all visible while standing at the window. The city was alive. Especially in April, when the cherry blossoms had bloomed and lovers walked hand in hand down the sidewalk. Seoul was nothing like Pyeongyang. And Choi Seungcheol was nothing like his Uncle Hansol.  
Nothing at all.  
And he never was.  
“Your ramyeon is ready!” Jisoo’s sweet voice said from behind the coffee table.  
Like Seoul, the apartment was busy and beautiful.  
Jisoo’s decorating instincts were impeccable. Light blue walls matched a fluffy grey carpet over a white tiled flooring. A low brown coffee table sat in the center, across from a television, surrounded by two large grey couches. The walls held selfies of Jisoo with his father Dr. Lee, with Jeonghan, and of course, with Choi Seungcheol. Jisoo was the golden thread that held them all together. That brought light to each of their lives.  
Dr. Lee, with his silver fringe and slanted eyes, carefully brought the noodles to his mouth, one at a time, as if savoring every bite. Mr. Jeon was slurping and texting, probably involved in some business.  
Choi Seungcheol scooped himself a bowl of ramen and sunk into the deep couch next to Jisoo. Jisoo smiled quaintly. Choi Seungcheol could swear there was something more to that smile. But he didn’t dare take action. Not with his secret.  
The doorbell rang.  
Jisoo stood up to get it, and Choi Seungcheol, slurping a bowl of noodles, forced Jisoo back down. “No, I’ll get it.”  
But before either of them could get it, Mr. Kwon strode out of the bedroom, today wearing bright neon pants, a tye-dye shirt, and large purple glasses.  
“You all are so lazy,” he muttered under his breath, heading to the door.  
Choi Seungcheol laughed.  
“It’s probably another one of our Gentleman’s suitors,” Mr. Kwon rolled his eyes.  
Suitors?  
Jisoo blushed.  
“I don’t have any suitors,” Jisoo resumed silently sipping noodles.  
“I was right!” Mr. Kwon yelled from the entryway.  
“Good, you’re too young to have any suitors,” Dr. Lee mumbled.  
“I’m 23 father. If I wanted suitors, I’d have suitors.”  
Jeonghan loped into the living room, loosening his tie. “Ramyeon yes,” he said, “I’m so fucking hungry.” He scooped up four giant spoonfuls into a bowl, spilling soup everywhere. Choi Seungcheol grabbed a napkin before Jisoo could and carefully wiped it up.  
Choi Seungcheol tolerated Jeonghan. If he was one of Jisoo’s guests, then he was one of his guests as well. Not to mention the fact that if it weren’t for Jeonghan, he’d be back in North Korea, torturing and gassing and—no. Choi Seungcheol bit his tongue to bring his mind back to the present. He needed to suppress those memories. For everyone’s sake.  
Jeonghan flopped onto the couch next to Mr. Jeon. Deep bags under his eyes, he stuck a giant spoonful of ramyeon into his mouth and slurped it up.  
Choi Seungcheol hated slurping.  
Mr. Kwon turned on the television and sat on the edge of the couch.  
A big haired news anchor released the latest story.  
“Rare aerial photos were released today by South Korean air forces” the anchor said, showing a giant photo of Pyeongyang. Choi Seungcheol busied himself wiping the table around the central soup bowl.  
“Along with these photos, a defector came with some interesting news today about this tower,” the video zoomed in on one of the buildings, where a tall old tower stood out of place in the silver city.  
A bowl crashed onto the floor. “I’m sorry,” Dr. Lee grumbled leaning forward to scoop it up. Choi Seungcheol grabbed the last napkin and ran over to clean it before Dr. Lee could hurt his back or Jisoo could move.  
“They locked me in this old tower,” a voice said from the screen as Choi Seungcheol reached under the table to scoop up the broken pieces of glass. “I was only there for a couple of days but, I noticed the weirdest thing,” the voice paused. “I saw the word DIG on the wall. So I did. I was going insane from boredom you see—“  
Choi Seungcheol stood and wrapped the glass up carefully in the napkin.  
“So I dug under one of the bricks, and I found this weird leather case. With ashes inside.”  
Another crash. Dr. Lee had stood up abruptly, knocking Jisoo’s bowl onto the floor as well.  
“Father!” Jisoo cried as Dr. Lee strode into the bedroom.  
“Be careful,” Choi Seungcheol carefully forced Jisoo back down to the couch. “There’s glass everywhere.”  
Jisoo’s big eyes searched Choi Seungcheol’s. Darting back and forth, glassing over.  
“Stay there Jisoo,” Mr. Jeon said from the other side of the couch. “I’ll go check on him.” Mr. Jeon stepped over Jeonghan’s long legs and climbed out behind the coffee table.  
Mr. Kwon appeared with more napkins.  
“Yes stay there our little Gentleman” Mr. Kwon cooed.  
Jeonghan put his bowl on the table and muted the television.  
Suddenly, the room got darker.  
Choi Seungcheol was holding on to Jisoo, who was still scrambling to get his father, and picking up bits of glass off the couch.  
“Who turned out the lights?” Choi Seungcheol said irritably.  
“No one turned out the lights,” Jeonghan said from across the room, looking out the big windows.  
Clouds had rolled in, covering the sun. So suddenly. So harshly.  
Mr. Kwon and Choi Seungcheol finished wiping up the ramyeon before allowing Jisoo to race into the room after his father.  
Choi Seungcheol joined Mr. Kwon at the sink as the first drops hit the window.  
“What was that all about?”  
“I don’t know Seungcheol,” Mr. Kwon said, “I really don’t know.”


	8. Camp Choi

Sir Choi Hansol was a bad man. A bad man through and through. A bad man who had been conditioned since his youth to be ruthless and violent. And everyone knew it. Camp Choi had a reputation throughout North Korea. Women threatened their children with a trip to Camp Choi if they misbehaved. Kids threatened each other that Sir Choi would come after them in games. He was infamous for his brutality and disregard for human life.  
So when he drove down the depraved streets of the cabbage fields he lorded over, the paths cleared and the few smiles wiped from the pickers’ faces. Sir Choi liked it this way. Why would these people be happy to see him. He’d send them to the camp if they were.  
Said Camp, maybe he’d stop by to see it. Check in on the rooms and his soldiers. Make sure everyone was thoroughly miserable before heading to his mansion over the hill. Yes that sounded like a good day.  
Suddenly a boy ran out in front of his SUV. Sir Choi slammed on the brakes, the contraband in back flying off these seats.  
The dust settled and Sir Choi stared at the boy. No more than 18, spiky brown hair, from sweat presumably, and the stare of a rabid dog. In fact, there may be foam dripping from his mouth if he got any angrier. Sir Choi laughed to himself.  
Sir Choi cracked the window, “Get the hell out of my way!” he yelled.  
The boy refused to move, but instead stood there with his stare and his chest rising and falling like he’d run miles.  
“Chan please don’t!” An older woman ran from the cabbage fields to the left. Wearing scraps of clothing, long pink rubber gloves, and her hair in a sweaty curly mess on the top of her head.  
Disgusting. These people were disgusting. They deserved every punishment they received. Rats like them shouldn’t exist, but caught. And disposed of.  
The woman pulled on the boy’s arm. “Chan! Come back! It’s not worth it!” she cried before collapsing on her knees, her sobbing head falling on his legs, still holding his hands. The boy didn’t stop staring.  
Sir Choi sighed and honked the horn of his massive black SUV three times. The noise echoed over the field, hit the mountains on the far side, and came back.  
And still, the boy stood there, ignoring the woman who had fallen at his feet.  
Sir Choi rolled down the window.  
“If you do not move rat, I will run you over. Don’t doubt that I won’t.”  
The boy scowled and and wrenched his hand out of the woman’s. He walked towards the car. Sir Choi would rather kill him than let dirty hands touch his car.  
“I’ll leave when you give my mother another handful of rice,” he growled through the window.  
Sir Choi rolled his eyes. He smoothed back his black gelled hair in the rear view mirror, casually resting his arm on the open window. The engine hummed on the dirt road, still kicking up dust. More rats had appeared, on either side of him. They had poked their heads up from the cabbage, like the rodents they are. Hiding from him in their holes until danger came, and then stupidly looking up to see it.  
Sir Choi sighed and turned to the boy. In a white holed shirt, Sir Choi could see the lack of muscle on his stomach.  
“There is no more rice,” he said matter of factly.  
The boy came closer to the window. The woman, still sniveling on the ground yelled at him to stop.  
“Then where do you get yours?” the boy growled.  
“Don’t come near this car rat you’ll regret it.”  
“Answer me. Where did you get yours?”  
Sir Choi considered answering. But only for a second.  
Then he slammed on the gas. The boy jumped to the side, falling off the road embankment, and Sir Choi ran over the woman, promptly crushing her small body. Sir Choi felt the crack of her bones under his tires. She didn’t even scream.  
Sir Choi looked back only once, to see rats gathered around her broken figure. He smiled. One more rat gone was one less mouth to feed.

He slowed down as he passed the Camp and rolled down the passenger window.  
“Yes Sir?” a soldier, in an olive green suit and hat holding an AK47, marched forward.  
“Yes,” Sir Choi tried to think of that soldier’s name but couldn’t place it. “A mile back, there was an accident. A woman died in the road,” he said laughing. “There is probably a boy with her.” The soldier nodded, not making eye contact.  
“Please collect them both and bring them to Camp.” Sir Choi gestured towards the tall cement walls with barbed wire curling along the top. “Have the boy dig a hole, dump the woman in it, and cover it up. Then drag him to Room T. I have some questions to ask him. Tomorrow.”  
“Yes Sir” the solder saluted.  
Sir Choi rolled up the window and drove the next mile or so to get to his mansion. What a taxing day. And he hadn’t even gotten to the difficult part yet.

Soldiers opened the large black gate as the road changed from dirt to beautiful red brick. Big oak trees willowed in the slight breeze. There would be shadows, if there was any sunshine. Instead, there was just the sprinklers managing his perfect green lawn. His three story brick mansion rose up into the sky, held up by white roman columns, a balcony stretched out from the second story, empty for now. Empty for a while.  
Sir Choi brought his car around to the side of the building—another car was already waiting. A black van with tinted windows.  
Shit.  
A butler opened Sir Choi’s door and he stepped down, tall black shined boots stretching over well fitting jeans. An olive green army jacket, unbuttoned, over a black t-shirt, clothed his upperhalf. He leaned into the butler’s glasses to check his hair. Yes, still intact. He thought maybe the drive’s events had messed with it. But no.  
Sir Choi peeked into the other van—another soldier, this one with black fringe covering his forehead, Southern style. Seungcheol couldn’t even drive.  
Pity.  
Sir Choi sighed and checked his gold watch, heading inside.  
The little bastard was early.  
Inside, the hall opened up three floors to the ceiling, dark wood crawling along the walls, an open hallway ran around all four walls, with carved doors leading to empty rooms. They hadn’t always been empty, but these days they were.  
The boy would be waiting in his own bedroom—Sir Choi was sure of it.  
His boots clapped along the marble floor and then up the white marble grand staircase, turning the corner to his nephew’s bedroom.  
He took a deep breath. It was just his nephew. The damned kid defector, now running with the Koreans from the South as if he was ‘civilized’. But no—Choi Seungcheol could not escape his heritage. He could not escape his destiny or his duty. He could pretend to be kind and ‘democratic’ but inside, inside, Choi Seungcheol was no better than any of the other Northern Choi’s. Why he decided to make a visit now, after a year playing around South, Sir Choi didn’t know. This was the part of the day he was dreading.  
He forced open the door and strolled into the bedroom.  
The boy’s back was to the door sitting at a nicely made table, staring out the window.  
“You should never sit with your back towards the door,” Sir Choi came around and sat across from Choi Seungcheol. “I thought your father taught you better than that.”  
Choi Seungcheol scowled and reached for a giant spoonful of rice in the middle of the table.  
“My father taught me nothing,” he said.  
Now Sir Choi scowled. His brother was a sensitive topic. Elder Sir Choi had been his mentor, role model, and guide. And then he was gone. Killed by Southerners at the border. Those pretty boys with American weapons had killed his brother. And for reasons unknown, younger Choi had defected to them.  
“Why are you here Choi Seungcheol.”  
Sir Choi scooped a large spoonful of rice on to his own plate, and then some steamed vegetables.  
“I am here to renounce any ties I have to this estate.”  
Sir Choi hid his surprise behind a napkin. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. This was his destiny, his duty. Chois were born cruel, raised evil, meant to continue the strength of the North. His time in the South was frivolous and stupid of Choi Seungcheol, but just a phase.  
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he said. A maidservant topped off his glass with wine.  
“The Choi name is associated with fear and slavery,” Choi Seungcheol tip a sip of wine himself. “I don’t want to be associated with that.”  
Sir Choi swallowed deeply, wiped his mouth, and put the white napkin, now stained, next to him. “You cannot shrug off your natural destiny Cheollie,” he said, using his childhood nickname. Choi Seuncgcheol visibly winced.  
“That may be, but I can choose to take a new one,” Choi Seungcheol said, putting his napkin down as well.  
The maid servant came and wiped all of the uneaten food into a large bowl to be taken to a trashbin.  
“This is the last time I will visit the North. I have a job as a tutor, friends, and a…significant other…in the South. I came here to tell you this. You will never see me again.”  
Sir Choi stood up and calmly headed towards the door.  
“Good bye then.”

The next morning, Choi Seungcheol left his bedroom, ready to say goodbye to this estate forever. Before he told Jisoo his feelings, he needed to be clear himself. And this was the last step.  
Sir Jun had agreed to sleep in the car that night. Choi Seungcheol thought this a little strange, but Sir Jun was never exactly the familiar type.  
Suddenly, he heard a scream and saw the maidservant at the bottom of the stairs, perched over a body.  
Choi Seungcheol raced to join her to see that it was his Uncle. Beyond dead, his blood tracing through the cuts in the marble. Farther and farther away, like someone had dropped a glass of wine.  
In his stomach was a knife, and on that knife was a note. “Drive him fast to his tomb. This, from Chan.”


	9. Cherry Blossoms

Mr. Jeon, the man of business, Mr. Kwon, Jisoo's caretaker, Dr. Lee, Jisoo’s real father, and Jisoo himself sat on the banks of the Han River. They were spread out on a blanket under a cherry blossom tree, watching the children skateboard and the couples hold hands as they walked passed.

Jisoo had never been happier. He was surrounded by people who cared about him, and he cared about all of them too. There was only one person who was missing. One person shouldn’t matter much, but to him it did. It bothered him a bit that one person could have such control over his feelings, but there was nothing to do about it.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

 

Choi Seungcheol: The weather is so nice out today. Are you around?

 

Jisoo’s heart leapt. Was he around? Of course he was around. When it came to Choi Seungcheol he was always around. 

 

Me: Yes, we are at the river in front of the apartment. :)

 

“Who are you texting?” Mr. Kwon asked with a knowing smile on his face. 

 

“No one,” Jisoo shoved the phone in his khaki pants pocket, blushing. But why should it matter? They all knew Choi Seungcheol. Why did it matter that they were texting?

 

“Yes, and I suppose it’s also ‘no one’ who has been the reason of you pacing your room the past three days,” Mr. Kwon said rolling his eyes and wiping dirt off of his neon pink pants. 

 

It was true that Jisoo hadn’t slept in days. Ever since Choi Seungcheol left on some ‘business’ three days ago, Jisoo had a nagging feeling that he was in danger. The happiness that he usually felt was gone, replaced with anxiety. But in that moment, that single text, Jisoo’s heart both leapt and calmed. Choi Seungcheol was ok. 

 

“It’s not your fault you know,” Mr. Kwon said patting Jisoo on the head, “with me watching over you, it was bound to happen,” he smiled, ripping grass from the ground and throwing it high into the air.

“Yes, I think it’s my fault for leaving him with you,” Mr. Jeon sighed.

“What are you talking about?” Dr. Lee said laughing from Jisoo’s other side. “He’s my genes, it’s my fault!”

All the men laughed.

Jisoo didn’t understand what they were talking about. Who’s fault was what.

“You say it like it’s a bad thing,” Mr. Kwon said leaning back on the blanket.

“You started it,” Mr. Jeon mumbled.

“It’s not a bad thing,” Dr. Lee patted Jisoo’s head. “Whoever Jisoo’s heart belongs too is a lucky person,” he winked.

 

Suddenly Jisoo felt very uncomfortable. These were feelings he was dealing with. No one else was supposed to be involved.

 

“Hello everyone!” a shadow appeared from behind them and Jisoo’s heart just about ruptured.

 

“It’s his fault,” Mr. Kwon said. The men all laughed.

The five of them spent the next few hours sitting under the tree, laughing and chatting. The blue sky, the green grass, the silver blanket, Mr. Kwon’s neon pink pants, the rippling river, Choi Seungcheol’s black fluffy hair. Yes it was a very nice shade of black. Jisoo’s life had exploded into a world of color he had never known. It was so beautiful. Everything.

 

Choi Seungcheol sat close to him and whenever they accidentally touched, reaching to get a piece of chicken or being bumped by another person, Jisoo felt a thrill through his body, from his skull to the tips of his toes. Like someone lit a roman candle through him. It was nothing like it had been with Sohee (good riddance) and that was confusing because boys were supposed to like girls. Yet, Mr. Kwon liked guys. And everyone loved him regardless.

 

The whole thing was just very confusing for Jisoo, but in the moment, he was just glad that Choi Seungcheol was back from his ‘business’ and was right here eating chicken with his fluffy black hair. In his tight black shirt and jeans. He never brought up his ‘business’, but Jisoo didn't mind. As long as he was here now.

 

The sun set on the river, the buildings across reflected magnificent oranges and yellows. They reflected in Choi Seuncheol’s black eyes too. 

But Jisoo had to stop looking at these types of things. 

It wasn’t appropriate.

 

“Well, it’s been a great day, time for me to head in,” Dr. Lee stood up holding his back. 

“Yes, let’s get the old man to bed,” Mr. Kwon said.

 

Jisoo’s heart dropped. He wanted that afternoon to never end. 

But there was always tomorrow, he supposed.

 

“Would you like to go for a walk?”

 

It took a moment for Jisoo to realize Choi Seungcheol was talking to him, specifically. Mr. Kwon was folding up the blanket and made a face at Jisoo. A face that said, ‘answer him idiot.’

 

“Um, sure,” Jisoo whispered. What he really meant to say was, ‘yes please let’s walk and talk forever and you can hold my hand too if you want.’ 

But that wasn’t appropriate.

 

They got up and Choi Seungcheol gave a nod to them all as they left. Mr. Kwon winked at Jisoo. He needed to not do that. It was embarrassing.

 

But not embarrassing enough for Jisoo to change his mind.

 

They walked in silence for a while. Along the sidewalk, with the cherry trees on either side, blossoms floating through the air. It was all very romantic. If he was into that kind of thing. 

 

“I have something I need to tell you,” Choi Seungcheol said as they walked. The people were thinning, headed towards the subway station as they walked away from it. 

 

“Ok,” Jisoo swallowed. He had a lot of things to tell Choi Seungcheol too. But he wasn’t nearly brave enough to say it. 

 

“I’m…from the North,” Choi Seungcheol said with a sigh.

 

Jisoo didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t that.

 

“Oh,” he said. They continued to walk down the flower path. Choi Seungcheol didn’t make eye contact with him.

 

“Well actually, I am too.”

 

Now Choi Seungcheol stopped. He grabbed both of his shoulders and turned to face him.

Was this a big deal? Jisoo assumed Choi Seungcheol knew this, seeing as they met in a mini van on their way from the North.

 

“Yes…” Jisoo whispered, lifting Choi Seungcheol’s hands from his shoulders. 

He wasn’t answering so Jisoo continued.

 

“My father, Dr. Lee, was trapped in a prison up North. Mr. Jeon and I went to save him. I mean, we didn’t know why at the time, but that’s what happened.”

 

Choi Seungcheol laughed and put his face in his hands. They had stopped under a large tree, away from everyone else. The sky was a dark pink and light purple, only the vestiges of the beautiful day were still alive.

 

But Jisoo felt very alive. Somehow telling Choi Seungcheol the truth about his father relieved a burden. And knowing that Choi Seuncheol was also from the North, well that made things easier didn’t it.

It still wasn’t appropriate.

But perhaps, it was slightly more.

 

Jisoo took a step towards Choi Seungcheol. He was a good three inches shorter, and this close it felt like a lot more. 

“Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

 

Kissing Choi Seungcheol wasn't like kissing Sohee. 

Nothing at all.

That had felt dutiful, required.

This felt scary and exciting. But at the same time, right. Their hands were more natural and he smelled a lot better. 

The sun disappeared, the streetlights turned on.

But Jisoo didn’t want this to stop. Ever.

It was completely inappropriate.

For other people maybe, but not for them. 

For them, it was the only correct thing in the awful world they lived in.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	10. The List

Sir Mingyu was a good man in an awkward place. On a daily basis, he had to choose between his Minghao and his conscience. That kind of life meant he didn’t get a lot of sleep and his normally handsome appearance was slightly less so. However, that didn’t stop him from being the most attractive man in North Korea. While looks and power shouldn’t coincide on principle, in this world they did. And as a result, Sir Mingyu had a lot of power that he never asked for, and did not want.  
Mingyu was at the register yet again thinking about this problem, when a boy walked in. Spiky brown hair and sweaty, looking like he hadn’t eaten a proper meal in weeks.  
“Come, sit down, let me get you something,” Mingyu said as he went in the back to get some rice. Minghao hated when Mingyu gave out food, but Mingyu couldn’t help it. He knew exactly where this boy was coming from. In fact, this boy, whoever he was, was Mingyu 17 years ago, when he walked into this shop, starved and scared, and met Minghao, whose parents owned it.  
Mingyu shook the thought out of his head. That was the past, and this was the now. He took a large sack of rice off the shelf and brought it back to the stove, where he began boiling water.  
“What’s your name?” Minghao asked.  
“My name is Chan,” the boy said, with anger in his voice.  
Mingyu poured water into the pot and set the timer.  
“I see,” Minghao slid a slip of paper from underneath the register. The one with all the red names.  
“A deed has been done,” Chan said.  
Mingyu didn’t turn around. He listened with his back to them. Mingyu could not keep a straight face for the life of him. So instead he stirred the water, fighting the urge to listen, and the urge to block everything out.  
“Who?” Minghao asked nonchalantly. As if discussing the newest banned boy group, not murder.  
“Sir Choi Hansol,” Mingyu stopped stirring and finally turned around. The surprised face on Mingyu’s was the opposite of Minghao, who looked satisfied.  
“Excellent,” Minghao whispered.  
Minghao uncapped the red pen he kept in the cash register and crossed out the top name on the list: Sir Choi Hansol  
Mingyu left the water on the stove and came to the counter.   
“Wait are you Sir Mingyu? THE Mingyu?” the boy Chan asked  
Mingyu said nothing, only drew circles on the counter with his fingers.  
“I see why they call you the Prince of the North,” Chan said trying to look closer at Mingyu’s face.  
The bar was full of men and women, chatting over rice wine and soup.   
Mingyu leaned forward to the boy. “You killed someone?” he asked.  
The boy named Chan smiled. “Not just someone. THE someone.” Minghao chuckled beside him.  
Mingyu was wrong. This boy wasn’t like him. Not like him at all.

Mingyu no longer wanted to be a part of this conversation, but he couldn’t help it. He finished cooking the rice and brought it back to the counter. He slid it in front of the boy and gave him a spoon. The boy slurped it up. Mingyu was right about that—the boy hadn’t eaten in a very long time.  
“—and another thing” the boy said between slurps.  
“Yes?” Minghao asked looking happier than he had in a very long time.   
“There’s another Choi.”  
Minghao’s face darkened.   
“Another Choi?”  
“Yes, I saw him driving up earlier in the day.” He slurped again. “Everyone on camp had heard of him. But also heard that he’d defected to the South last year.”  
Chan returned to his rice.   
Minghao tapped on the counter, and then scratched out Sir Choi Hansol’s name harder.  
“What’s his name?” he asked, through tightened teeth.  
“Choi Seungcheol.” Chan answered.  
“Choi Seungcheol,” Minghao spelled out each letter as he added it to the bottom of the list.   
“Can I see the list?” The boy asked scooping up the last bits of rice. Minghao faltered for a minute before handing it over.   
The boy looked at the list like he looked at the rice. Hungry and desperate. Mingyu felt very uncomfortable.   
“Wait, Sir Jihoon? As in THE Lee Jihoon?” the boy gasped looking at Minghao.  
Mingyu’s heart sunk deeper than it already had. He tried to think about his old master as little as possible. The look of mercy on Sir Jihoon’s face when Mingyu begged that he go to Pyeongyang to find a better life. The look of terror on Sir Jihoon’s face when he escaped the firing squad—the only one to do so. The look of gratitude on Sir Jihoon’s face when he learned that it was his old worker Mingyu who had helped him escape. The look of betrayal when Mingyu locked him up in the tower. The look of intelligence that melted away year after year as Sir Jihoon slipped deeper into his own head. And the look of confusion when he was taken away after 15 years. To find a better life of his own, Mingyu hoped.   
“Yes, yes him,” Mingyu mumbled.  
Chan pushed the empty bowl away. “I didn’t know he was one of the President’s people,” Chan scratched his chin.   
“He wasn’t,” Mingyu responded. Minghao gave him a fierce look. “Well, technically he was,” Mingyu faltered, “but he was a good person. Which is why the President took him to be executed. He didn’t trust him.”  
“Hm…” Chan said. “My mother talks, talked, about him sometimes. He’s a legend.”  
Mingyu nodded his head and looked away.   
“Thank you Chan, for your hard work. You are always welcome here,” Minghao said.  
“Thank you Sir,” he bowed in return.

Later that night while cleaning the kitchen, Mingyu took the list out from under the register. There were 20 names. Sir Choi Hansol, now scratched out at the top, and Sir Choi Seungcheol now added to the bottom. Various other names on the list had been crossed out as well.   
“Minghao?” Mingyu turned turned around and watched his companion scrub dirty plates in their old sink.  
“Yes darling?” he sighed.  
“How do you know if Choi Seungcheol is bad?”   
Minghao sighed yet again, closing his eyes.  
“We’ve talked about this many times,” he scrubbed harder. “That list isn’t necessarily all bad people. It’s just a list of the President’s people.”  
“The President’s people. You want all of them dead.”  
Minghao threw the rag on the counter, walked around the stove and put his arms around Mingyu’s waist.   
“I know this is really about your old master,” Minghao said. “Don’t worry. It’s just a list.”  
Mingyu had been trying not to worry for 15 years.  
It hadn’t worked.


	11. Confessions

~One Year Later~

“Jeonghan, I need you to look something up for me,” Seungkwan laid back on the old couch, kicking off his shoes.  
“No thank you,” Jeonghan flipped through the pages of his manga.  
Seungkwan threw a mooncake and it hit Jeonghan directly in the face.  
“What the fuck was that,” Jeonghan chucked the manga at Seungkwan’s stomach, and he cringed.  
The muted television was on the newest scandal of the South Korean President being on the verge of impeachment. An interesting topic, if you had any motivation to look into such a thing. But Jeonghan didn’t. Instead, he picked the manga up off the floor and laid back on the couch across from Seungkwan.  
Another mooncake hit him in the face.  
“What the fuck seriously stop—“ Jeonghan turned on the couch towards the glass coffee table between them to grab a mooncake himself.  
“I’m a big deal now Hannie,” Seungkwan said in a baby voice. “And you’re my assistant. So I need you to look something up for me.”  
Jeonghan put the anime book down rolling his eyes. It was true that since the defector case had passed, Seungkwan had become something of a celebrity lawyer. He refused to give Jeonghan any of the credit of course, because Jeonghan had been drunk and late that day and didn’t deserve it.  
“What do you need me to look up?” Jeonghan said pulling out his phone sighing.  
“Is gay marriage allowed in South Korea?” Seungkwan said munching on his mooncake, crumbs falling all over his button up shirt.  
Jeonghan faltered. “Why the hell would you want to know that?”  
Seungkwan stopped chewing. “Maybe because I’m gay you imbecile.”  
“You’re gay?” Jeonghan said sitting up straight.  
“You thought I was straight? Are you kidding me?” Seungkwan sat up across from him as well.  
Why was everyone Jeonghan knew gay.  
An interesting topic, if you had any motivation to look into such a thing.  
But Jeonghan didn’t.  
Instead he reopened his phone and looked it up.  
“Nope, definitely illegal,” he raised his eyebrows, reading through the various scandals and punishments of late. “Very illegal.”  
Seungkwan laid back down and grabbed another mooncake. “I thought so,” he said.  
“Do you suddenly have a man you’re interested in?” Jeonghan was still surprised at Seungkwan’s confession. But also, if he’d been paying attention at all in the past five years, it would have been obvious.  
“You could say that,” Seungkwan put his hands behind his head.  
Jeonghan didn’t care about Seungkwan’s love life. He really didn’t.  
Not at all.  
Jeonghan fluttered through the pages of his manga.  
“Who?” he asked.  
Seungkwan smiled. “You know that boy who was at the defector’s trial?” Jeonghan’s heart stopped. “Which one?”  
“The pretty one. With the eyes.”  
“Hong Jisoo?” Jeonghan said hesitantly.  
“Yes—that’s the one” Seungkwan snapped his fingers into the air.  
“You’re interested in him?” Jeonghan said. He couldn’t be serious. Seungkwan hadn’t even had contact with Jisoo in two years and now was interested.  
Seungkwan nodded with a faint smile at the ceiling. “Oh my fucking God,” Jeonghan rolled over on the couch laughing. And he couldn’t stop. It was one of those times where he just couldn’t keep laughter in.  
“What is your problem?” Seungkwan said sitting up.  
What were the chances. What were the chances that the boy still taking up Jeonghan’s daydreams, after all this time, were also creeping into Seungkwan’s. It really was the funniest thing Jeonghan had in a long time. A very long time.  
“Stop laughing at me!” Seungkwan stood up. “I’m a famous lawyer now. I have power.” Seungkwan held his fist up to his chest.  
“Oh my god,” Jeonghan pulled on his forehead laughing and sat back up. “Ok, but why. Why now?”  
“Haven’t you heard?” Seungkwan asked, walking towards the television.  
“Heard what?”  
“Rumor has it that Choi Seungcheol and Hong Jisoo are getting married.”

No, no Jeonghan hadn’t heard.  
Jisoo had seemed happier the past few months. And by happier, he meant ecstatic. Humming while stirring ramen and smiling out the window. Jeonghan was happy that Jisoo was happy, and didn’t really care why it was so. Just that it was so.  
Jeonghan didn’t think it was because of a relationship. How could he have missed it. He saw it at the trial, he saw the happiness when Choi Seungcheol was released. But marriage? That was…another level.  
It was illegal anyway. Very illegal.  
This was a topic that Jeonghan was interested in.  
Immediately.

 

Jeonghan stood outside Jisoo’s apartment on the 13th floor. Hand raised to knock on the door, heart pounding. What was the point in this. He brought his arm down and paced back and forth. What did he even have to say. Congratulations on your relationship? Good thing it’s not me because I’m a dick head? But I wish it was because I’m actually in love with you and have been since the moment I saw you?  
No, that wouldn’t go well.  
The door swung open.  
“Are you going to come in Jeonghan or just pace?” Mr. Kwon pushed his accessory glasses up high on his nose.  
“Oh,” Jeonghan stuttered. “Is Jisoo home by any chance?”  
“Yes…” Mr. Kwon let him inside the beautiful apartment. “He’s in his room,” he said pointing to a door.  
Jeonghan froze.  
“Right there, that’s his room…” Mr. Kwon pointed again.  
Jeonghan couldn’t move. He wasn’t ready for this.  
“Yes ok…” Mr. Kwon slid around him. “I’ll be fixing the bathroom toilet”  
Jeonghan still stood there, staring at Jisoo’s white door.  
Mr. Kwon poked his head out of the bathroom. “I fix hearts too, if you need it.” Mr. Kwon winked and disappeared again.  
Shut up.  
“Who are you talking to Mr. Kwon?” a small voice came from behind the door and it flung open. “Oh, Jeonghan.” His eyes widened.  
Jeonghan pushed Jisoo into the room and back towards the wall.  
Jisoo, in his light blue coat and perfect cupids bow hair and matching lips . He looked absolutely lovely.  
Jeonghan ran his hands through his black fluffy hair. He should have showered before coming. Or at least changed out of his t-shirt and jeans. He’d walked out the door without looking back and well now he was here standing in front of a confused Jisoo feeling very irrelevant.  
But that was nothing new  
“I just, have something to tell you,” Jeonghan began, biting his lips.  
He could see the surprise on Jisoo’s face. They rarely spent time alone, and when they did it was all sarcasm and profanity. On Jeonghan’s part. It made Jisoo laugh.  
But Jeonghan wasn’t using sarcasm or profanity now.  
“I um…” Jeonghan stared at his hands.  
“Are you ok?” Jisoo asked. “Are you sick?” he stood on his tip toes and ran his hands through Jeonghan’s hair. Jeonghan closed his eyes, memorizing this feeling.  
“Stop,” he pulled Jisoo’s hands away, but held his wrists, trapping him there.  
“I have something to say and I’m going to say it quickly and then I’m going to leave and we will never speak of it again. Do you promise?”  
Jisoo nodded trembling.  
“Anything you want Jeonghan. Choi Seungcheol and I are indebted to you. You are the reason for my happiness.”  
Jeonghan lowered Jisoo’s wrists.“Yes, about Choi Seungcheol,” Jeonghan sighed. “He is a good man. He is me, if I had gotten my life together. In another universe he is me.”  
He looked up at Jisoo, who’s eyes were welling with tears.  
“But you can be whoever you want to be Jeonghan. You don’t have to be so—“  
“Yes. Yes I do,” Jeonghan cut him off. “I’m like a person who died young. I was content to be that way, until I met you,” he let go of Jisoo’s wrists completely, “and then you came and made me feel like I could be someone. Which has made my life a living hell.”  
Jisoo let out a tear. “I’m so sorry if I made your life difficult.”  
Jeonghan shook his head and wiped away the tear with his hand. His heart was still pounding but he was filled with the words he wanted to say. In the moment, he understood his purpose.  
“This is the part where I talk and you say nothing. Just listen ok?”  
Jisoo nodded, another tear welling.  
“Choi Seungcheol is your protector. He is your heart. He is a better man than I will ever be.” He took Jisoo’s hand “but if there is ever a time when he can’t come. Ever a time when—god forbid—he can’t be there for you.” He briefly put Jisoo’s hand to his lips. “I will be your second protector. I will never let anything happen to you Jisoo. I would die before that.”  
Jisoo’s eyes were wide and glassy.  
Jeonghan wiped a final tear.  
“I will never speak of this again,” he said. And he turned, leaving Jisoo alone in the bedroom. He strode past Mr. Kwon who emerged from the bathroom with his computer paused on a YouTube fix a toilet video, and he shut the door. Feeling, for the first time in his life, proud of something he had done.


End file.
